


Triumvirate

by jusrecht



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Dark, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Multi, Rough Sex, mindfuckery, the world has gone to hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-09-06 11:47:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8749516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jusrecht/pseuds/jusrecht
Summary: In some ways, she understands why he looks the way he looks now. More beautiful than she has ever seen, but also colder, harder, like something inside him has forever crystallised. An Omega to two such powerful Alphas. (From Queenie's POV.)





	1. Queenie - Wandering Daughter

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this kinkmeme prompt](http://fantasticbeasts-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/459.html?thread=103627#cmt103627).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part's title comes from a song by Kimya Dawson.  
>  ****  
> ****  
> 

 

Queenie knows that it’s _him,_ even before she steps out of the dingy pub into the chill of pine-scented air, before she follows the trail of his scent into the dark depth of the woods.

 

She finds him in a snow-draped clearing, standing at the centre like a stone statue, cold and still and exactly the same as he was years ago when he roamed the halls of MACUSA. Even his suit and coat are the same ones Queenie remembers from memory, black and white with a swirl of grey from the scarf slung loosely around his neck. She almost flinches. This, here, has nothing to do with those glittering fragments of the past that she now hoards like a treasure, kept deep in a locked chest.

 

He isn’t looking at her, his face tilted slightly toward the pale December sun, as if scenting the horizon. Queenie steps closer, into the clearing, crushing snow under her boots.

 

“It’s really _you_ ,” she whispers, breath misting in the frozen cold.

 

He turns slowly towards her, like a ghost, like a distant memory. “Hello, Queenie,” he says, and it, too, is a wraith of a voice, all smokes and shadows. It’s as if he’s talking to her from beyond the veil.

 

The thought sends a cold shiver down her spine, but fear is an old companion by now, tired and stale like regret. She pulls her coat—Tina’s coat—more tightly around her thin frame, and then takes another step, close enough to reach the tangled webs of his mind.

 

Instead, she finds a fortress of walls, not a crack visible on the smooth granite surface. There is no tendrils of thought, no wisps of memories. He stands there, a corporeal presence, and yet she cannot read him.

 

Percival Graves watches her, a thin smile on the curve of his lips.

 

“You couldn’t do that to me ten years ago. What makes you think you’ll be able to now?”

 

His words carry a taunt, a jibe, but her armour is so thick now, layer upon layer of grief sticking to her skin that she barely feels the sting. Instead, she asks, “How did you know I’m here?”

 

“You’re an Omega,” he replies, brisk and matter-of-fact. That part of him, at least, has not changed. “No matter how you tried to mask your scent, I could still smell it.”

 

Queenie tightens her grip around her wand. “Is he here?”

 

“Close.”

 

“Are you his puppet now?” She is the armed one, but Percival Graves has never allowed the absence of a wand to encumber him before. Queenie cannot imagine he will now.

 

“Is that what everyone’s saying?” he asks dryly, sounding almost amused.

 

“I saw you.” Her voice shakes with emotions, the memory nailed to the interior of her mind, framed by dread. “A year ago, in Warsaw. I knew it was you. The papers said that Grindelwald liked wearing your face. That he got a kick out of it. That he had your corpse stashed away somewhere for a lifetime supply of Polyjuice potion. But I _knew_ it was you.”

 

Warsaw was a massacre: almost a hundred dead, the Polish Ministry of Magic left in tatters, No-Majs weeping in front of the city they once had known, now no more than smoking ruins. Eyewitnesses mentioned the presence of a dark-haired wizard, wearing a black coat with a grey scarf, leading Grindelwald’s ruthlessly efficient army. An old picture of Percival Graves earned a nod, every single time.

 

Not that she needs any confirmation. She was there, under the disguise of a war journalist while in truth she was chasing ghosts, not news. With all her friends either dead or missing, Queenie has little to stop her. (She doesn’t think about Jacob. He’s not a part of her world, and for this, at least, she is grateful, even if she still watches him sometimes, opening his shop every morning. She can almost taste his pastries, crisp layers and sweet peaches and sprinkles of cinnamon sugar.)

 

And there, in Warsaw, under the falling eaves of a wrecked post office, she saw _him_ , with her own eyes, snuffing the life out of a young, weeping, terrified witch with a single flick of his hand.

 

“Warsaw is unavoidable,” he says quietly, and it’s the lack of _everything_ in his voice, the total disinterest, that breaks the frozen chain of doubt around her. Queenie goes from numb to enraged in the span of one heartbeat. She almost Apparates to where he’s standing, a ghost and an abomination, to claw his face until he bleeds and screams or reveals that he is in fact Grindelwald, playing with her.

 

She does not. Queenie knows that she will never reach him. Above all, Queenie knows what she will find. This is _not_ Grindelwald.

 

“Tina’s dead.” Her rage curls into bitterness. Even now, the word still rips a new wound inside her. She doesn’t think that she will ever stop bleeding for her sister. Everyone said that it was an honourable death. An Auror’s death, in the line of duty, a shining example of courage and loyalty. But death is death and at the end of the day, Queenie is still a girl who has lost everyone and everything.

 

“I heard.” Perhaps his face softens, or his voice, but she cannot bring herself to care. “I’m really sorry.”

 

“Grindelwald killed her.”

 

“I know,” he says, and the eyes holding her gaze are steady, dark and unreadable. “But there’s nothing you can do about it now. If you show your face, he’ll only kill you. Or worse.”

 

“I don’t think I care anymore.”

 

“Tina wouldn’t want you to do this.”

 

“Don’t you _dare_ say her–”

 

Her angry burst is interrupted by a third presence, swirling black smoke condensing into a more distinct shape. She stares, stunned, as the familiar figure of Newt Scamander materialises next to Graves.

 

“Percival, he’s coming back. I can sense–”

 

That is when he notices her, hurried glances that quickly turn into shock and panic. Queenie can only stare at him, reeling from the slap of betrayal—because this is _Newt_ ; Newt who went missing ten years ago; Newt who’s supposed to be dead; Newt whom her sister had never stopped searching for, until the moment of her death. Queenie’s ears are ringing, and it takes her a while to notice that it’s the screams of another person’s thoughts, tearing a fiery path in her mind.

 

If Graves’ mind is an empty stretch of wall, then Newt’s is a riot of sounds and images. Queenie stumbles backward, overwhelmed by the flood of thoughts and memories. With her focus in tatters, she can only make sense of little—but it’s enough.

 

She raises her eyes, horrified, meeting his wild, distraught gaze.

 

“Don’t.”

 

His voice is soft, pleading, but she cannot stop. She is living the last ten years of his life, with Grindelwald, under Grindelwald. She watches through his eyes everything he did, everything he let happen. She sees his reasons (always, for the sake of his loved ones, humans and creatures alike), feels his agony, suffers his torture and pain and anguish like they’re carved into her own flesh.

 

“Oh Merlin, Newt…”

 

“I have no choice.” His voice is high and tight, like skirting the edge of hysteria. “He has my creatures. All my children. I can’t leave them in–”

 

“Newt.” Graves’ tone is an anchor, quiet, grounding. He’s quick to step between them, an arm around Newt’s waist, a hand on his lower back. Newt is breathing hard but Graves holds him close, protective, foreheads pressed against each other, noses touching.

 

Queenie doesn’t understand what she sees. Not at first. But when they kiss, mouths finding each other’s as if by instinct, she _knows_ then.

 

“The two of you,” she chokes out, disbelief and rage blinding her for a moment. Newt was Tina’s, supposed to be, almost, before his sudden disappearance. It almost drove her sister mad with grief. And now, this betrayal.

 

Newt laughs, a brittle, jagged sound. “The three of us, actually.”

 

Queenie freezes but her mind lashes out, hungrily reaching out for Newt’s terrifyingly open vault. What she finds make her feel sick to the bones. The hunger. The touches. The fucking. The mind-fucking. The three-way bond. The manic laugh. The hands that leave bruises. The smiles that leave scars. The life chock-full of poison and thorns, and none of them can leave.

 

In some ways, she understands why he looks the way he _looks_ now. More beautiful than she has ever seen, but also colder, harder, like something inside him has forever crystallised. An Omega to two such powerful Alphas. There is a tight, pinched look that wasn’t there before, and the way he carries himself now is so different that what’s left of Queenie’s heart aches. Now he knows that mistakes can, _will_ , kill.

 

“I’m really sorry about Tina.” He sounds lost, miserable, for a moment so much like the old Newt that she almost crosses the distance and takes him into her arms. “I tried my best, but I couldn’t– he wanted me to do something that I– I never thought that he would do this. But he knew that we were close. He knew what Tina meant to me, and then he found her and– I swear I tried to stop him. I promised him everything. I would’ve done _anything_ , but he– she was already dead.”

 

Queenie thought she knew horror before, but it isn’t until that moment that she _knows_. She cannot even look at him anymore, let alone into his mind. She would go mad.

 

“We should go.” Graves breaks the spell, pulling them both back to the stark present. She watches, as if across a great distance, as Newt slowly looks at him. Smiles. Nods.

 

“Wait.” Queenie hears the word burst out of her throat. She wills her feet to move, if slowly, until her progress is checked by the devastating weight of their bonded magic. “Newt,” she tries, the words heavy on her tongue, “you can’t go back to that madman. You can’t keep doing this.”

 

“I’ve told you why,” he replies softly, almost kindly.

 

“There must be another way.”

 

He gives her a small, sad smile. She feels a gentle caress on her cheek, from an unseen hand, and the next moment, he no longer stands in front of her.

 

She stares at Graves, who is watching her with the same cool disinterest, hands deep in the pockets of his coat.

 

“You must stop him.”

 

Something flickers in his expression and it’s ugly and painful and deadly. For a moment, she thinks he will snuff her out, just like he did to that witch in Warsaw. But his hands remain where they are and his face smooths over, back to its stony inscrutability.

 

“Right now, he’s the only thing that stands between Gellert Grindelwald and the rest of the world,” he tells her, hard and flat, “and he knows that.”

 

And she does too. She saw it in Newt’s mind, resolve burning so brightly it nearly blinded her, but tears spring to her eyes all the same.

 

“But this is too cruel.”

 

Graves doesn’t respond. He looks up instead, at the steel-grey sky, heavy with snow.

 

“I must go. You too, leave at once. You don’t want him catching your scent.”

 

Queenie approaches him then; this time, she _knows_ she can reach him. “Promise me at least,” she says fiercely, her fingers digging into his arm, as if desperately seeking for his warmth, to convince herself that he’s still human. “Take care of him. Take care of each other.”

 

He gives her a long, pointed look, then a quiet snort, before disappearing in wisps of smoke. She can still feel his warmth on her hand, in the valley of her palm, lingering for a moment before it, too, scatters with the next gust of wind.

 

Queenie breathes in deeply, then turns around to leave.

 

_**End** _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this AU is really delightfully dark, I think I may have to write more.
> 
> This fic has also been translated into Chinese [here](http://gwenthemonster.lofter.com/post/3b8cf2_d423281), courtesy of gwenthemonster :)


	2. Newt - Sift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit about this fic: Each part pretty much stands alone although they're related to each other. And the timeline is definitely not linear. This second part, for example, takes place about a year before the previous part, directly after the Warsaw incident mentioned by Queenie. 
> 
> I will update the fic when the next idea strikes. Still have some more for this verse lurking about, so hopefully a few of them will eventually see the light of day :D
> 
>  **Warning:** Explicit content for this chapter.  
>   
> 

Newt likes to let his mind wander.

 

As far as habits go, it’s a rather harmless one. He sits in silence at Grindelwald’s left, waiting for time to pass. The room is cold. The _castle_ is cold, a relic from centuries past with its grey stone walls and arrogant towers. The old great hall has been turned into a throne room, all pale stone arches and tall columns, set upon marble floors. Grindelwald, the megalomaniac that he is, loves to sit there enthroned on a dais, surrounded by his cortege of loyal servants.

 

Newt rarely attends these meetings. He does not enjoy them, and Grindelwald knows that he does not enjoy them. Which is why sometimes he will find them used as punishment.

 

He bears it as best as he can.

 

He used to have these little places in his head. Pockets of peace and safety. Back at Hogwarts with its horde of teenage bullies, he found his escape there, drifting from one to another. Now, with the bond between him and his Alphas firmly established, those places are no longer safe.

 

And so Newt lets his mind wander. He looks at the tall, vertical windows, at the grey (rarely blue) sky beyond, at the clouds that hang heavy on an overcast canvas. He thinks of another sky, another life, and lets a stream of memories wash over him as the others discuss their Grand Plan.

 

Grindelwald— _Gellert_ , he hates it when Newt calls him Grindelwald, even in his head, but sometimes Newt can’t help himself and he’ll be punished for it, so he tries at least to keep it at minimum—Gellert mentions _Warsaw_ and Newt thinks about the family of cockatrices he met there once. They were lovely creatures, with shiny-smooth tails a beautiful shade of green, the particular colour of their clan. Slightly temperamental, perhaps, but relatively gentle unless provoked. They lived in an abandoned clay pit just outside the city. They loved playing in the mud and he could still feel the cool wetness between his fingers, around his sinking feet.

 

But then Gellert says, delightedly, “He did it,” and Newt’s peaceful line of thought scatters. He turns toward the dark lord and sees the manic grin that lights his entire face. It’s such a striking face, made even more striking by the raw power swirling behind his eyes.

 

“My darling,” he says, stroking Newt’s cheek in mock gentleness, “aren’t you happy for me?”

 

Newt manages a small smile, tilting his head slightly into the touch, but doesn’t answer. He schools his expression to polite disinterest as the discussion continues. Nobody looks at him. Most of Grindelwald’s inner circle think him half-witted— _like most Omegas, but he has to be one of the worst, and yet our liege is happily bonded to him, just goes to show that you can never tell about tastes_ —or at the very least negligible, a nobody who only loves creatures.

 

“A great success, my lord,” they say, chant the same sickly sweet praises. Newt is grateful to them, if only for this. Gellert loves to lie in a bed of praises. The happier he is, the better it will be for Newt, in every way.

 

He also loves to celebrate. Their success in Warsaw will crown him with exhilaration. He will put on one of his most lavish robes, trimmed with furs and glittering gold threads, and then do a parade across town. His town. He enjoys playing the part of a medieval king, riding a horse and waving at jubilant crowds.

 

When he returns, he will find Newt and pull him into his arms.

 

“Come on, darling.” He grins, drunk with triumph. “You’ll have to deal with dear Percy later and we both know he isn’t in a good place right now. So let me pamper you first.”

 

And so Newt lies on his back and lets Gellert fuck him. He tries to enjoy it as best as he can, because Gellert sometimes can tell when he’s feigning pleasure. Not always, but Newt doesn’t want to take chances. Especially today.

 

Today he needs to stay alert.

 

He comes twice. Gellert knots him, and then they mark each other until he goes soft. Sometimes he likes playing with Newt, teasing his sensitive body until he begs for reprieve. Not today. Not without an audience. Instead, he leaves after a kiss to his forehead, and Newt will be free to drag himself on shaky legs into the bath.

 

Hot water is always ready and waiting for him. (The house-elves in this place are absolutely beyond reproach, first-class service 24/7.) The bathtub is large, almost pool-sized, covered in blue-green tiles. The water smells of roses, sometimes lavenders, sometimes citruses—twenty-four different choices just with a flick of his wrist. _Anything for you, darling._ Newt sinks into the heat and rubs, rubs, rubs, until his skin turns red and stings to touch. Then he sits in the middle of the tub, quietly breathing in the scented steam.

 

Afterwards, he waits. He likes to wait in the garden, where he can watch nature survive in all the little ways. He has his own personal garden, filled with medicinal herbs with a few plots spared for blooming flowers. He likes their colours, the purely ornamental purpose of their existence—or seemingly so. He likes to watch a whole world of small creatures living their short busy lives. The bees that drift from flower to flower. The ladybugs that sit on curving leaves. The caterpillars that move slowly, ever patient and never failing to get there in the end. The worms that peek from their bed of cool earth. The horklumps that pose as benign mushrooms. The sight of them gives him hope, even if just a little.

 

Theseus finds him there. The puffskein is six months old, round and thick-furred. He literally has nothing in common with Newt’s fearless brother, but Newt always names his closest companion Theseus. (Pickett is long gone, crushed to death when he still tried to run from Grindelwald.)

 

He has had a succession of creatures named Theseus, from an owl to a knarl to a jobberknoll. He likes to call out the name; likes to feel it curl on his tongue before exploding in a soft hiss; likes the way it lifts his spirit up just to say it out loud, even if the man that was his brother is dead. (It was not Gellert, and Newt thanks fate for small mercies. He would have clawed Gellert’s eyes out had he been responsible for Theseus’s death. Although there are days when the idea seems much more preferable. Anything but this half existence.)

 

And then there are the children.

 

Once, there was a baby girl, and then a baby boy. His two beautiful children. With his golden-red hair. Through some sick twist of fate, they both have Newt’s hair, one a shade darker, the other a shade lighter. Hector looks exactly like his first memory of Theseus. And Helena is as strong and fierce as his mother.

 

Nowadays he only sees them twice a year. Gellert keeps them somewhere, an insurance for his loyalty. For his good behaviour. His willingness. They’re virtually the foundation of this castle in the air between them.

 

Between the three of them.

 

He knows when Percival arrives. His heavy, formidable presence sends ripples through the castle. Newt finds him in the hall leading to their quarters. He smells like blood and murder, but it’s the tense set of his jaw, the black hardness in his eyes, that tells Newt everything he needs to know. Carefully, he reaches out to touch Percival, but the other man flinches.

 

“Don’t.”

 

There is so much fury and disgust in that one word. Newt drops his hand as Percival walks past him. It’s only logical that Percival rejects him. Why would he touch him, after Grindelwald had, the monster responsible for all the blood in his hands?

 

Sighing deeply, Newt returns to his quarters and soon busies himself with cauldrons and potions. He has some skills with them and Gellert has been encouraging his rather scholarly interest in the art of potion-making. Newt must admit that it has its uses. Brewing potions requires concentration, the kind that allows no room for any other bundle of thought.

 

Percival comes to him an hour later.

 

“Sorry,” he says, hovering at the door and looking as well-groomed as he always is. “About earlier.”

 

“It’s already forgotten,” Newt says serenely. He smiles, for good measure, but doesn’t look up. “Come in, please.”

 

Newt feels, more than sees, Percival stepping into the room. He likes the feeling of Percival approaching him. Slow, steady steps. Or quick, steady steps. Always steady, as if the fate of the world depends on his steadiness. Newt knows that it’s the work of the bond more than anything else—the same bond that makes his body react to Gellert, every single time—but he likes it all the same. Just like the knowledge that when he reaches out, Percival will be there, wrapping his big, warm hand around his fingers.

 

He pours the potion into a pretty porcelain teapot—a Royal Crown Derby, a gift on his birthday some years ago. The mug, however; Newt allows himself a smile when he retrieves the mug from a lower drawer. It’s blue and old and chipped at one side, a badge from many years of travel. Nowadays, he only uses it on special occasions like this, but once upon a time, it carried his tea every morning. And his afternoon tea. He can still see it sitting on the counter in his little shed inside his case as he pores over pages of manuscripts. _Anything you want, darling. Memories are important, aren’t they? So are sentimental values._

 

Newt tries not to think about the case too much. Instead, he concentrates on pouring. He just made another batch of the same potion last week, but a fresh one is always better.

 

“Here.” He gives the mug to Percival. “Try this.”

 

Percival sighs and assumes a long-suffering expression, but his fingers dutifully curl around the mug. It’s practically ritual by now. He will make a show of reluctance, and then pretend to indulge Newt’s wishes by taking a sip. Newt will smile, the way a happy mother does when her unmanageable boy shows a rare display of obedience. 

 

He has been experimenting with many potions in order to increase their effectiveness as well as make them more palatable. This particular formula is actually one of his successes, but Percival still makes a face when he swallows the first sip. (It’s the mugwort, he never likes the taste.)

 

Newt watches him, a helpless sort of affection curling through him. Not for the first time, he imagines them as two ordinary men in love, happily living together, just like any other ordinary married couple. Bonded in that special yet completely normal way. Maybe Percival had caught something from work. A cold. And Newt was feeding him a stronger dose of Pepper Up. He would make the same face. Newt would laugh the same laugh. And their two beautiful children would just be down the hall, safe and asleep in their beds.

 

“This tastes even more vile than usual,” Percival declares.

 

“Mmhm.” Newt hums noncommittally. “Drink it all up.”

 

Seconds tick away in silence. Percival finishes the rest of the potion in a few big gulps and Newt beams at him when he sees the empty mug. The effect usually takes one minute, two at most.

 

“Is it working?”

 

Percival is frowning. “Not as well as usual, I think. Calming draught is supposed to be calming, right? Did you change the ingredients?”

 

“I might have experimented a bit,” Newt admits, slowly moving to the direction of the bedroom. He feels Percival following him. “There’s this interesting theory from Professor Takyi in Uganda. His research was inconclusive, but what I could decipher from his notes strongly indicate that a combination of mugwort and a drop of nundu’s saliva has the curious effect to turn any negative emotions into, what do you call it, more pleasurable ones?”

 

“More pleasurable ones,” Percival deadpans.

 

Newt turns around, smiling innocently. “So. I’m going to ask you again. Is it working?”

 

The last word has barely left his mouth when he is tackled to bed. Newt laughs, spreading his legs as Percival settles between them and makes a quick work of his clothes.

 

“You dare to do that to me?” Percival growls in his ears, his warm, pleasant weight a promise of things to come.

 

Newt gives him his most complacent smirk. “I think I already did.”

 

He’s wet and ready and Percival sinks into him in one quick thrust. The burn is delicious. Every nerve in his body snaps awake at the jolt of pleasure-pain. Newt throws his head back, moaning openly, and sinks into the familiar, twisting need rolling through him.

 

Percival doesn’t speak. He rarely speaks—not even making a sound—when he is in this mood. Only his pace betrays him, quick to gain both in speed and intensity. Newt grins and spreads his legs even wider, relishing in the roughness. He loves the way Percival fucks him. Sometimes he wishes he didn’t, at least not this much. This should have been a punishment and punishments aren’t meant to be enjoyable.

 

He has done Percival so many wrongs. (For allowing Gellert to fuck him. To knot him. To make him come. To use him. To rule over him. Them. For allowing Gellert to do a lot of things—because Newt could have stopped him if he had really tried. Maybe. At least he _should_ have been able to.) And if it weren’t for Newt, Percival would never allow himself to be trapped in this sick relationship. But Newt is his Omega and no matter how hard he tries to pretend, Percival Graves is a man with deep loyalty. Deep love. Deep grudge. Every noble and ignoble feeling that he now turns toward Newt.

 

And Grindelwald knows it. Gellert Grindelwald is a madman, but he is a brilliant madman. The three-way bond was a mistake born from the heat of the moment, but he turned it into an advantage. He now has both Newt and Percival bonded to him. Their fates will forever be interlinked. Indeed, what better way is there to secure such a powerful tool?

 

Percival comes with a gasp, even more quickly than usual. Newt blesses Professor Takyi’s notes. “More,” he murmurs, finding Percival’s hand and lacing their fingers together. “Come on. You still want more.”

 

Without a word, Percival yanks Newt around, still impaled on his cock. Then his hand finds the curve of Newt’s cock and strokes, hard and tight. Newt’s vision whites out for a moment and he may have come, a little spurt that does nothing to his lust.

 

“More pleasurable, is it?”

 

It isn’t teasing. Percival’s voice is too rough, the way he strings his words too careless. There is a threat of his magic hanging in the air, thick and pressing. He’s a breath away from breaking.

 

Newt reaches behind, over his shoulder, and touches Percival’s cheek.

 

“Come on,” he rasps. “Fuck me.”

 

Percival obeys. He has no choice. Newt clenches and he howls, a wild beast uncaged. His cock is a hard, heavy presence, driving in relentlessly. Newt can feel the beginning of a knot, stretching him wide. He bites into the pillow, staving off a grin, and arches his back for easier access. Percival responds immediately, fucking in deeper and harder.

 

“Come on.” Newt is still muttering, babbling incoherent words of encouragement. He knows it doesn’t matter what he says; it’s his voice, the desperation and need in it, that drives Percival mad with lust, fingers clenching on his hips. These moments are the only times he ever allows himself to let go. And Newt will let him. He can take it. He _must_ take it. It is his duty, part of his debt.

 

Except he likes it so much, _too_ much that he comes from the brutal shove and fuck, so hard that his ears ring. Percival manages a few more shallow thrusts before stilling, knot fully expanded. Despite the heaviness in his limbs, Newt still tries to push back. He loves skirting this edge, _craves_ for it, even.

 

“Stop it,” Percival growls in warning. It only reinforces Newt’s stubbornness. Making full use of the space between them, he rises to his elbows forces himself to turn around.

 

Newt is pretty sure he screams.

 

When he comes to, Percival is still swearing in his ear. “Crazy pain slut,” he hisses, and Newt laughs, hot tears in his eyes. His entire body throbs with a dull ache that will become a scatter of bruises tomorrow. Grindelwald will most likely fuck him again tomorrow. He loves seeing Newt covered in bruises, especially from Percival’s hands.

 

Percival is now kissing every part of Newt’s body, or at least tries to, with the two of them still locked together. This is part of their ritual too. It’s when the sting and the guilt make their presence felt. Percival will be wearing this strange expression on his face, like he is caught halfway between crushing remorse and equally crushing desire.

 

“I’m so sorry,” he says, his voice raw, vulnerable.

 

“Don’t be,” Newt tells him and leans up to brush their lips together. “You’re not the only one who needs this.”

 

His confession seems to bring some life back into those beautiful dark eyes. Percival exhales sharply. “Fuck, Newt.”

 

“In half an hour, maybe? Am a bit sore.”

 

Percival snorts. “You’re so fucked up. _We_ ’re so fucked up.”

 

“Maybe,” Newt hums, threading his fingers through Percival’s messy hair. “But honestly? I’m glad it’s you.”

 

“You just love my knot,” Percival mutters.

 

Newt smiles, finally breathing more easily.

 

_**End** _

 


End file.
